


Wrecked

by knesk



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: (it's Q that's emotional attached to a BMW), Canon-Typical Violence, Car Accidents, Emotional Baggage, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Rating May Change, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Trauma, unexplained emotional attachment to a BMW
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 13:30:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11806953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knesk/pseuds/knesk
Summary: When it's really bad, I guess it's not that badCar accidents are an occupational hazard at MI6, the 00 branch especially. Field agents simply can't be bothered by such things--they're screened for pre-existing fears, sensitivity to traumas, anxieties, all that. If you can't handle a car accident you can't handle the job.And it would seem the Quartermaster really, really cannot handle the job.





	Wrecked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was in a car accident while away on vacation and walked away more than a little traumatized. This is 100% self indulgent, if not a way to cope with my own stress.

               Before he can realize what’s happening his eyes squeeze shut and he’s sharply, _so sharply_ thrown forward. He catches. And it’s like a bomb has gone off.

               There’s a haze around him. It isn’t smoke, but it looks like it, heady and sedimentary and difficult to see through—like there’s television static in three dimensions, and his eyes can’t focus on any of it. It’s _in_ Q’s head, too; he can’t really think, his brain is just buzzing on that same, dirt-heavy frequency as whatever’s in the air. He isn’t sure what’s happened. His phone is in his hand—it had been, he remembered it having been—but his glasses are in front of him, not on his face. He’s not nearsighted enough for that to make it so hard to see, but it doesn’t really process in his mind that way, anyway. Without knowing, he’s put his phone down on his thigh and his glasses are in his hand. He puts them on. The car’s atmosphere seems to be clearing and as his brain settles back in he finds he can’t hear. His ears are ringing something terrible. The airbag is off in front of him.

               _Are you okay?_ _Are you okay?_

               Q blinks. It feels like the words are traveling through sand into his ears. Or underwater, maybe. He can grasp the words but his hearing _feels_ like its shot, like the vibrations echoing into the shell of his ear are stopping flat somewhere along the way. He looks at Bond without really seeing him.

               “What happened?”

               His voice comes from a mile away.

               He’s not sure if Bond answers him.

               He realizes his face is throbbing, just from his nose down, and it feels like his neck has been rubbed raw. The windshield is shattered in front of him. He’s covered in small, glitter-like pieces of glass.

               _Are you okay?_

               Q nods mutely.

               _God, fuck! It’s shot to hell it won’t even—_

               Q stops trying to process words through the noise in his head. He looks out the shattered windshield, runs his fingers down his neck. It stings to touch.

               “I can’t hear. Can you hear?”

               He isn’t really trying for an answer, the words just sort of tumble out of his mouth.

               Bond is already extracting himself from the car, but he stops a moment, says, _Yes—yes I can. Are you okay, Q? Q—_

               It still sounds like its coming from inside a bubble. Q keeps his hand on his neck.

               “My face—my face hurts, I hit my face. My neck..is it, it feels, it hurts—is my neck alright? Can you see my neck?”

               _The airbag’s just rubbed it raw, you’ll be fine. Superficial injury, at best. Can you get up? We’ve got to move, Q—_

Q releases the seatbelt and lets Bond get the door for him, somehow already outside and around the car, his head working millions better than Q’s. He tugs Q up and out and starts a dead sprint, his hand still locked around Q’s, probably ripping at the muscle in his shoulder as he forces him into stride.

               Q doesn’t remember a single visual thing about the run.

               He does know at one point, though, he’s got his head on right enough to blubber, “We’ve abandoned the beemer.”

               Bond glances back at him, but keeps his pace. “We had to, yes.” He keeps at pulling Q’s shoulder out of socket, his face pinched with focus and direction, probably little clue as to where he’s headed. He gives another look backwards at Q and says, a bit forced, “I’m sorry, Q.”

               Q can’t feel his tongue as he says, “It’s okay. It’s alright.” He tries to swallow but it sticks going down.

 

 

               Bond gets them to a hotel.

               He seems fine, collected, maybe even at ease if it weren’t for the grinding flex of his jaw. With his usual saunter, he throws his gun onto the bed—the only bed, a queen at least—and gives Q a look. “I’m going to go shower,” he says. “You _do_ know how to use that, if it’s needed?”

               The way he says it isn’t a question, and Q just nods at him, his throat bobbing with a dry swallow. He feels like he could cry, and he’s not sure where it’s coming from. It’s like a demon is clawing at the corners of his mouth, bringing them into deep crevices in his face, his throat tight and stiff while his heart hammers within him, far too high up in his body, and far too distant from it as well. He tries to keep his head from swimming. He isn’t hurt, save the burn on his neck, but he feels like an absolute wreck. His eyebrows press downward and he has to force a stream of air into his lungs.

               He sees Bond slip his tie from his shirtcollar before he disappears into the bathroom and the shower stream sounds through the wall. Q keeps sliding air into himself, much too purposeful to feel calming, and he numbly pads over to the bed to sit.

               There’s only about four tears that slip down his face before his throat finally opens up and he can breathe easy again, big gulps of air filling up his chest satisfyingly. He wipes the moisture from underneath his glasses and lays back. His heart still pounds, but he feels…better. Like his mind has cleared. It’s still blank, but it doesn’t feel like static, or like repressed panic. It’s just empty.

               A bit later, Bond comes out of the shower with his pants on and Q spares a glance at his scarred shoulder before meeting his eyes and then looking past him. Eye contact feels wrong. Everything feels wrong, but eye contact especially. He looks at his hands.

               “You look a bit green, Q.”

               Bond says it lightly, but there’s the thinnest veil of concern hidden in there. Q doesn’t know what to say, so he stays quiet.

               “Well,” Bond sighs. “I’ll take the floor, if you like.”

               Q forces himself to speak, the words squeaking out like helium from a stretched balloon. “It’s alright,” he manages, swallowing more dust. “If you…wanted to share.”

               Bond nods.

               Q blesses his tact.

               “I’ve been speaking with R,” he continues, walking over to the other portion of the bed. “There’ll be a car for us in the morning. Seems those after us have dispersed, for the moment.”

               Weakly, Q says, “Good.”

               Bond sits next to him, heavily, a considerable weight on the bed. “Afraid we missed the mark on this one,” he muses. “But we’ll be back on home soil tomorrow. We’ll be able to regroup, reassess, and go on from there.”

               Q looks away. “We’ll…lose the beemer, then,” he says.

               “I _am_ sorry, Q.”

               There’s something about the tone Bond uses that strikes a very sad chord. Q feels that same tightness in his throat as he did earlier, while Bond showered and he had been left alone. He turns over, away from Bond. It doesn’t feel right to say it, but he does believe that Bond is sorry. So many times he’s asked for equipment back and Bond has just given him that cheeky, _Oops!_ curl of lips and duck of the head, and Q knows he doesn’t care that he’s broken it, because he gets away without scolding every damn time, gets new toys even though they all know it’ll only last a day. But this isn’t his standard, _Sorry Q, I may have dropped that one._ This is a tender and quiet apology. Bond knows that crashing the BMW and leaving it isn’t the same game as bringing back the Aston Martin’s steering wheel without any other part of it. Crashing the beemer and leaving it _hurts._

               “Light off?” Bond asks.

               Q doesn’t have the energy to answer. He lets his shoulders raise and fall in way of response, and the room goes dark.

               Their night together is very still—or feels it, at least. They sleep as far apart as they can, facing away from each other, their backs a healthy half foot apart. It’s a surprise, but Q _does_ sleep, and without much hesitation, either. The crash has tuckered him, and he’s happy to let the night suck the fear out of his chest. Bond lays overtop the duvet next to him, calm and awake. He’s not wound up in the same way as Q, but he has been affected by the events. By the failed mission. A job done poorly never rests well with him, and without a healthy drink, he’s far from a comfortable sleep. Q doesn’t notice, but then again, Bond wouldn’t expect him to. He lets his colleague sleep, and comforts himself with the thought that if anything happens, he’ll be awake to combat it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is written largely for myself, so I haven't bothered with beta or brit-picking, let me know if you find any mistakes.


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